shining.

Presently Martha continued: "The poor dear fell back into her father's
arms, and he and Mary carried her into the house; and then came a long,
sad time. For days and days they couldn't make her believe but that he
was saved, for she knew he was a fine swimmer; but at last, when all was
over, and the body found and buried, they brought her a little box that
they found in his pocket, all soaked with water,--oh, dear!--and in it
was that pin,--the stone pansy, as she always wears, and will till the
day she dies. Then she knew, and she lay back in her bed, and they
thought she would never leave it. But folks don't often die that way,
Miss Hilda and Miss Rose. Trouble is for us to live through, not to die
by; and she got well, and comforted her father, and by and by she
learned how to smile again, though that was not for a long time. The
poor gentleman had made a will, giving the new house to her, and all he
had; for he had no near kin living. Mr. Bond wanted her to sell it; but,
oh! she wouldn't hear to it. All these years--fifty long years, Miss
Hilda!--she has kept that house in apple-pie order. Once a month I go
over, as old Mary did before me, and sweep it from top to bottom, and
wash the windows. And three times a week she--Miss Bond--goes over
herself, as you saw her to-day, and sits an hour or so, and puts fresh
pansies in the vases; and Jeremiah keeps the lawn mowed, odd times, and
everything in good shape. It's a strange fancy, to my idea; but there!
it's her pleasure. In winter, when she can't go, of course, for the
snow, she is always low-spirited, poor lady! I was _so_ glad Mrs.
Grahame asked her to go to New York last winter!

"And now, young ladies," said Martha, gathering up her pillow-cases, "I
should be in my kitchen, seeing about supper. That is all the story of
the house in the wood. And you'll not let it make you too sad, seeing 't
was the Lord's doing; and to look at her now, you'd never think but what
her life had been of her own choosing, and she couldn't have had any
other."

Very quietly and sadly the girls went to their rooms, and sat hand in
hand, and talked in whispers of what they had heard. The brightness of
the day seemed gone; they could hardly bear the pain of sympathy, of
tender pity, that filled their young hearts. They could not understand
how there could ever be rallying from such a blow. They knew nothing of
how long passing years turn bitter to sweet, and build a lovely "Ho